Dark Room
by Yesilian
Summary: John's flat mate may insist that John only saw, but didn't observe. But he was wrong. John may have been inebriated, but he wasn't stupid. He had followed a black wall to a black room. The sounds emerging were distinct. He was in a gay club. You hear about those things. What John couldn't explain, though, was why he entered the dark room. Or: John and Sherlock in a dark room
1. Chapter 1

Harry'd decided she'd celebrate her 40th birthday big, in her favourite club. Turned out, it was a gay club. And John was stuck.

He couldn't leave before midnight because a) he was the big brother, you can't just leave a milestone birthday before midnight, b) he would appear so old, which at 42 he wasn't, c) people'd presume he was uncomfortable around gays, which he wasn't, swear to God. He would just have to drink more to pass the time. Much much more. And hope nobody from work saw him here. They already talked too much.

John blamed the beer and vodka when strolling through the club looking for the loos he got sidetracked by an intriguing, black wall. A brick-like pattern was painted on it, the wall stopping somewhere to form kind of an entrance to another room. Curious John followed the path.

The new room was really only a narrow hallway, the walls painted black on both sides leading somewhere new. The corridor was narrow and maybe ten metres long, leaving the light behind fast. John put out a hand to the wall on his left, feeling for the tapestry. The way it swallowed the light meant it had to be something else than plain paint and he was right, the texture under his fingers was more cloth-like and definitely not plaster. John was a little proud of himself that he'd figured that out, even in his half-drunken state.

He also noticed how the music drowned out with every step he took. He basked in the feeling. It wasn't because he was old, but the music really had been rather loud. Here, it was calm. Relaxing after hours spend out there.

But with fading music and light, his other senses picked up, and what he could hear now was definitely something else completely. The path came to an end, a doorway leading off to his left into another room, the final room.

John's flat mate may insist that John only saw, but didn't observe. But he was wrong. John may have been inebriated, but he wasn't stupid.

He had followed a black wall to a black room. The sounds emerging were distinct. He was in a gay club.

You hear about those things.

What John couldn't explain, though, was why he entered the dark room.

Rounding the corner, he was surprised, pleasantly. There was some sort of light source, it just was grey. John didn't even know there was such a thing as grey light. It was enough to enable him so see shapes and silhouettes, but he couldn't make out any of the handful of people in the room. All was very dark grey on all-swallowing black. It was perfect! For a moment John forgot about the room's purpose and the people in it using it for just that, but seriously, the lighting was genius.

When he came back from his scientific high, he took in the people. John waited for panic to start welling up in him. He wasn't exactly shy, but those people, they were having sex. Right in front of him. Granted, he couldn't see anything but movements, but yeah, he was English, after all. He should feel somewhat embarrassed. Shouldn't he? Except, he didn't.

It was arousing, but not overwhelming. The people, he couldn't make out their genders, either didn't notice or mind John as he started walking around the room slowly. He stopped some places and watched, saw what little he could see, and then resumed wandering. His skin started to tingle, but he was happy to watch, hear, and not take part, especially as he didn't know the etiquette of this establishment.

That was, until he saw movement by the door as somebody new, single, entered. They looked around and then made their rounds. John observed the new person, prickling with excitement as the possibilities came to mind.

It was a man, he could tell that much. Even only by the man's height and hair style. Women that tall often countered their above-average, not-very-female height by sporting long hair, but that man's hair wasn't long. That. It was longer than John's, but long hair was 'in' on men in their twenties.

So, young male, single, looking for a one-time hook-up in the dark room of a city gay club. John was on fire tonight. One spot-on observation after the other. He should make note of telling his flat mate about that, he'd be proud. Probably. If he'd listen.

And right now, judging by said man's speed as he walked around, John had about 20, 25 seconds time to decide if he wanted to provide. It must have been the alcohol that he even considered the option. That man was clearly not John's type. Lack of breasts made that obvious. Still, he was intrigued. People fucking around him, the smell in the air triggering a pavlovian response, letting the part of his brain that controls base instincts take over. But John was not a man of base instincts. Not any more.

His resolves came crashing down, when the young man arrived at his side, leaned on the wall next to him and John knew he'd decline if an offer came until the other man touched his left wrist and shot a bolt of something from John's wrist up into his shoulder and from there down his spine. It was intensely pleasant. And in that moment John just thought 'fuck it' and then he literally did just that.

He turned to the man, his hand still around John's wrist in a light yet strong grip. John tried to look at him and see anything but it was impossible. He could barely see his outline, squint as he might. He gave up on that.

Freeing his wrist lightly, he lifted his hand just some inches and intertwined his fingers with that of the other man. Stepping in front of him fully and crowding him against the wall, John leaned in and took a discrete breath. He had smelled it from beside him but now, much closer, he could bask in his heavenly smell. The man smelled so comforting, so nice, so much like everything John knew, that nerves didn't even get a chance to come up in him. John wasn't nervous, at all. He was confident and that's why he leaned up and kissed the man in front of him.

The kiss was hot from second one. The other mouth opened under his onslaught, their tongues duelling playfully, teeth nipping at lips and tongues. It was a stupid thought, but John immediately felt at home in the other man's mouth. It helped that the other man tasted of John's own toothpaste and earl grey tea.

Their free hands had wrapped around each other's necks to hold their heads even closer than the kiss already assured. John took another step, pushing the taller man into the wall and pressing their bodies together. He was getting hard so fast he was feeling dizzy, the other man's growing erection pressing into his hip accelerating the process even more.

John dropped his hand from his jaw to run it down other the man's silky button down to where it was tugged into his woolen trousers, pulling at the button there one-handed and impatiently. Their surroundings were long since forgotten, John existed only with this smooth, tall man in front of him, with his taste on his tongue and nothing else mattered in that moment.

"Help me." he whispered into the other man's mouth. The tall man freed his hand from where it was still holding John's and pulled his other one from around John's neck to unfasten his trousers. Shoving them down a bit, he kissed John one last time and turned around in the little space he had. John took a step back to give him more room to brace against the wall and lean forward, pushing out his arse for John to do with however he pleased.

John pulled down his trousers and pants and let his hands wander over the exposed bum, grabbing at the luscious flesh as if it belonged to him, marking it with bruising strength. He wondered briefly at the man in front of him who didn't make a single sound, appreciative nor dismissive, who just pushed back into John's hand spurring him on.

He traced the crack of his arse with one finger and found the entrance, letting his finger linger there for just a moment, pressing in lightly. The man pushed back against him, his body doing what his voice wouldn't, telling John to get on with it.

"Do you have any lube? Condoms?" John asked quietly, glad he even remembered it. The other man was willing, no doubt, but not open enough and there was just no way John would fuck a strange man without a condom, even if he didn't seem so strange.

The man reached out one of his hands and fumbled at the wall, searching for something and then, all of a sudden, reaching into a bowl John hadn't noticed and coming up with a handful of sachets, handing them to John. He was surprised, and glad, that the club-owners at least were forward-thinking.

He couldn't see what the packets were, but thankfully, his fingers could recognise their contents. He picked one condom and one sachet of lube and put the remaining packets back into the bowl that was screwed to the wall. John felt a sudden, inexplicable fondness for the club Harry had dragged him to. The thought, however, was short-lived. With a new surge of impatience he started at his own jeans, opening them and shoving them and his pants down to his mid-thighs. His cock sprang free, eager for action, so full it almost hit his stomach. He tore open the condom with his mouth and rolled it on, preparing himself for when, in a moment, he might be too preoccupied to do so otherwise. Next, he ripped open the lube and squirted a decent portion onto his left hand, rubbing it with his fingers, warming it up before he brought his hand back to the neglected arse in front of him. Time to begin.

The man squirmed deliciously under John's touches. As much as he wanted to get to his knees and bite into the flesh, gnaw at it and lick his way around and all over it, John was impatient. Another time, his brain provided, and then shut up again. No place for thoughts when his body wanted to bury itself in that arse.

John pushed one lubed finger in and found it fit easily. Encouraged he brought up his middle finger, too, and stroked two fingers in and out, scissoring when inside, widening the path. The man made his first sounds, huffing air, always meeting John's hand, just as impatient as John. When he felt it was right, John pushed his ring finger in as well, opening up the man with three fingers now, stretching him. He fingered him for another minute and made good use of his medical education when he went straight for the man's prostate and alternatively pressed down and gently stroking it with just a hint of his fingertips. He couldn't see, of course, but he imagined the man biting down on his bottom lip to keep from screaming out, as tense as his back was under John's ministrations. The man's quietness transferred to John who usually was a lot more vocal during sex, but rather silent now. Maybe it was because some part of his otherwise unused brain remembered there were still some other people in close proximity.

The man was ready as could be and desperate for more, so John drew out his fingers. With shaking hands he poured the rest of the lube into his hand and brought it to his condom-clad cock, treating himself to a couple to strong strokes, groaning loudly, obscenely. He had grown even harder while his fingers were inside that man.

With a foot he very softly kicked the other man's legs wider apart until his arse was at John's hip level, perfect height. John tipped at his waist to give him a warning and then stepped forward, cock in hand, guiding it to the man's arsehole and wasting no time, pushing in, much slower than he thought he was capable of. The man opened up beautifully for him, still tight, unbelievably hot and gripping so firmly, coaxing John further in, farther, until he was halfway in and stopped for barely a second before pulling back out, moaning, holding only the head of his cock in and pushing back in, an inch farther then before. Picking up speed gradually John continued the in-and-out movement, sinking deeper a bit every time until at last he felt his bollocks touch the other man's, delectably. He groaned, throwing his head back, sounding like an animal. John didn't care. Couldn't care. His hands have found their place on the other man's hips, his fingers digging into the sparse flesh there, surely leaving marks and John just couldn't care, no, wanting to mark him, mark him as his, let all the world see, John couldn't have cared if the room they were in were flooded in light, video cameras broadcasting it live on the internet, as he marked this man in the most primal sense as his and everyone, every single man or woman on the planet should know it. This. Was. John's.

And so he began fucking him in earnest. The sound of flesh hitting flesh sounded loud in his ears and he fucked still harder, still louder. Angling his thrusts he hit the man's prostate time and time again, the man forgetting about his own no-sound-policy and moaning, though quietly, under the onslaught, bracing himself against the wall, holding onto his own arms for dear life. John relished in the knowledge that thought intoxicating, his fucking probably wasn't enough for the other man to come, but as John slammed into him like a sledgehammer, he had no way of freeing a hand to stroke himself even though he clearly wanted to, it was quite obvious, and John would not give it to him. Not yet.

John tried to think about something, something, anything, hydrogen 1, helium 2, lithium 3, was it beryllium 4?, Sherlock would know, don't think of Sherlock now!, God, that man was hot! So tight. So hot. He was doing something, something with his arse, flexing his muscles, massaging John's cock, growing tighter and releasing him again, and screw this, John brought his left hand around and started stroking the man's prick, never losing a beat pistoning with short, sharp thrusts in and out of his arse and then he came and the man came, too, and then they both came and the dark room went blindingly white and his arse was milking John, honest-to-god milking him for all he was worth, every last drop caught by the condom and John hoped it was good quality, because he was coming so hard and so much, the man would be leaking for days if that condom broke.

Both were breathing hard and trying to ground. When the room came back to John he eased out of the death grip that still was the other man's arse, flinching at the feeling on his over-sensitive cock. He staggered to the wall and leaned on it, needing the support while his legs tried to stop trembling. Next to him the man still had his forehead against his forearms, breathing heavily, but still otherwise, not trembling like John.

"You okay?" John asked, doctor mode firing up. The man nodded.

"Good." He let his head drop against the wall. After a while he stripped off the condom, knotting it and trying to make out a waste bin. Finding none, and feeling bad, he let the used condom drop for the cleaning personnel to deal with. As John pulled up his pants and trousers the other man came back to life next to him, straightening his clothing. He turned his head to John, as if to look at him, but of course not seeing him, still he nodded and left the room swiftly without giving the impression of running away. Gracefully.

John looked after him until he lost sight of him. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling for panic to rise up in him, but finding none. He felt okay. Sated, satisfied, nothing at all negative about getting his satisfaction from another man. He smiled at himself. That had been much easier than he ever anticipated.

It was easier, because he knew who that man was. It didn't matter that he hadn't said a word, knowing his unique voice would give him away in a second.

John was inebriated, but he wasn't stupid. His smell, the soap he used that was the same John used, the toothpaste that was John's as well, the familiar cologne that couldn't completely hide the faint smell of formaldehyde that John was just so used to. His height, his form, his clothes. John didn't need light to recognise that particular man anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing had changed at home. When John came back after Harry's birthday party, Sherlock had already retired to his room. They had a case the next day and solved it one after. Everything was perfectly normal. One could almost forget about the club.

Consciously, that is. Because John's subconscious mind reminded him of it nightly. He could take it for two weeks and then, he couldn't anymore.

"I'm going out." He said to Sherlock and put on his jacket, checking if he had his wallet, phone and keys. "You coming along? For a pint?" He knew the answer, but he was nothing if not polite. Sherlock grunted dismissively, John wasn't even sure he had heard him. The only thing, though, Sherlock always heard him, he just didn't always want to acknowledge him.

"Okay. Don't stay up." With that he left the flat. When he stepped out the house it took John all he had not to turn around to see if Sherlock was watching him from the window. Of course he was, John was 99% sure about it, but he didn't check. So, slowly he turned right and walked towards the tube.

He arrived at the club twenty minutes later and settled at the bar, ordering a pint. John tingled all over his body but deterred from turning around for long minutes. After he did though, he let his eyes sweep the room. Of course he couldn't find Sherlock. He wasn't even sure whether he had followed him or, if he had, whether he was already here.

Taking his pint with him, John went to a lounge area, settling himself where he could be seen easily. He was determined to be seen but not see himself and he stayed where he was for another forty minutes, figuring that would have been enough time for Sherlock to arrive and find him, if he had followed.

Other men posed a problem John hadn't foreseen. As he found out it was something of a signal when a single man entered a gay club and made himself seen in a lounge area. He was chatted up frequently and was getting less polite at declination each time. At first the was flattered, then he was irritated, then he resolved to never chat up a pretty woman again. Poor women, the things they had to go through. Men were aggressive.

When he though enough time had passed, John got up and very slowly and deliberately made his way to the other side of the club were the dark room was. He was getting nervous now. He still kept himself from actively searching for Sherlock in the club, not quite keeping his gaze to the ground, but only looking a couple of steps ahead of him.

He entered the dark room. There were a few people already there, heavy at work, so to say. John couldn't make out singles and so started walking around, waiting, passing the time, getting into the mood. It was the same smell as before, it wasn't dirty or filthy, it smelled of pure, fresh sex, and it was getting to his head.

He had lost sight of the door for a moment and jumped when a light, big hand landed on his shoulder all of a sudden, not having seen someone new enter the room. It was a man, the man, behind him, leaning in and kissing his neck, going up and licking behind his ear, sucking his earlobe between his lips and nibbling lightly. John relaxed into the touch. The man steered him towards the wall and spun him around before they hit it, then pushing him up against it. He went straight for John's throat, licking, kissing, wetting it, air hitting the wet spots and making John shiver all the while the man tucked at his shirt to bring his hands under it and against John's stomach, letting them roam all over him, leaving a hot path behind them. His skin felt on fire, his throat a mixture of cold wetness and wet hotness under unrelenting lips and teeth and it took no time and then John was moaning, one constant sound.

He brought one hand up and tangled it in the long curls on the man's head, his other hand copying the man and pushing under his shirt, flat on the small of his back, pressing their hips and growing erections together. John's mouth fell open the better to suck in more air, his eyes were shut tightly, forgetting that he couldn't see anything anyway. He started fading out the other people in the room, forgetting about anything that weren't the other man's lips, teeth, hands where they touched him and that delicious smell that John had to bottle and spray all over his room at home, really.

He gained a grain of consciousness when he felt the man tuck at his belt and opened it and then his trousers. His hands, both hands, circled around John's hips and under the hem of his trousers, going straight for his arse cheeks and seized. His breath caught in his throat as the man stepped between his legs, closer, bringing their groins together with one less layer of clothing and bit at John's neck where it met his shoulder, sucking at the skin there.

"Jesus." John groaned. God it felt good. He didn't have time to bask in the feeling as the man slid down his body, going down on his knees, bringing John's jeans and pants down to pool around this ankles, cock exposed to the air, almost fully hard already. He felt lips lick at his right thigh, sucking, again those teeth, leaving a twin mark to the one he could already feel on his neck.

Then a hand out of nowhere rolled a condom over his length, immediately followed by the hot, wet warmth of a mouth as his glans slipped between lush lips.

"Fuck." He moaned. It was fast. A minute ago he was strolling around, now his cock was in someone's mouth. The mouth gave a tentative suck, than let go of him and John whimpered. A tongue replaced the sensation, licking its way up from his bollocks to the tip of his prick while a strong hand gripped what the tongue couldn't touch and then he was swallowed up again. It felt too good already, already too much. John's hand grabbed at the hair under his palm. He tried to not push but he knew he wouldn't succeed. He wanted more of that hotness.

Grateful for the numbing condom he none-the-less whimpered more with every passing five seconds, with every inch more of him that disappeared between those lips that by now must have shone with spit and God, John wished he could have seen it. The suction around his cock was so hard, so hard, so painfully hard, so tight, so hot. He lost all thought. Some part of him registered a hand on his balls, distracted later by a spit-slick finger circling his hole and pressing in lightly. Too many points to concentrate on, tongue and lips where he most wanted them, hot fingers grabbing his bollocks, a fingertip in his arse, each point mere centimetres from the other and they all morphed into one big area, an area made of John's lower body and that was all he could feel right now. The center of the universe. Everything became one, skillfully stimulated until it was too much and he fell over the edge, shaking, standing up on his own two legs by pure miracle, holding onto the skull under his one hand and a shoulder under the other.

It hadn't been more than two minutes.

He looked down at the man between his legs and startled when he got up in a flash, attacking John's mouth as if he was a man dying of thirst and John an oasis. John could feel his lips bruising under the kiss and didn't care, brought his arms up and hooked them behind the man's neck, forgetting he was naked from the waist down.

He fumbled for the other man's trousers intending to bare him just as much, loosening his pants and drew out his cock. The man moaned into his mouth at the first contact of skin on skin, never stopping his relentless kissing. He was hard and John started stroking, eliciting a whimper. He stopped the kiss and bringing up his hand, he licked it, using spit instead of lube, went back to kiss the man and went back to stroking him. Having gained back some blood for his brain John was glad to notice that at least it wouldn't take the other man long to come, too. He stroked, twisting his wrist a little on the upstroke, and the man came between them, spurting semen on both their shirts, no longer kissing, their mouths open against each other's, breathing heavily.

After a minute he started buttoning up his trousers and kissed John a last time on his jaw, gave one last, lingering lick over his bottom lip, before he left.

John gave him a five-minute head start, then followed.


	3. Chapter 3

The love bite wasn't difficult to hide, but John wanted to see Sherlock's reaction to it. Technically, he couldn't have been 100% sure the man he had fucked really was Sherlock just because Sherlock was a crazy stalker who never let John have any fun unsupervised. No, there was still a chance it was someone else who smelled and tasted and felt just like him, small as that chance might have been.

That's why John left his room the next morning wearing only jeans and an old cotton v neck jumper. It hid the bite on his shoulder, for now. He went about his usual routine, making them tea and breakfast and they ate in comfortable silence, reading their papers until Sherlock's phone chimed with a message from Lestrade, summoning them to a crime scene. The men got up and put on their coats, ready to leave the flat.

Before they did, Sherlock turned to John, stepping into his personal space and pulled a little on his jumper, exposing the love bite. John looked him straight in the eye, daring him to say anything.

"You might want to hide that." Sherlock said, touching the tip of his index finger against the bruise. "Do you want to borrow my scarf?" He asked.

"Thank you, I would like that very much." John answered in the same polite, neutral tone, as if they were talking about the weather. Sherlock took his scarf from the hook on the door and tied it around John's neck.

"There." Sherlock straightened it unnecessarily, flattening non-existant wrinkles and tucking it into John's jacket, lastly zipping that up.

"Ta."

"You're very welcome." And then they left. John could feel his heart racing in his chest all the way to the crime scene.

John let one week pass before going back to the club. Like the last time he waited for half an hour and only then did he go to the dark room. He thought about the strangeness of it all and what it meant for him. Thinking about it he came to the conclusion that it wasn't the publicity of the sex that turned him on, which he was grateful for. No, truth be hold, both times he had forgotten all about the other people in the heat of the moment. Seeing them was arousing, but he honestly couldn't say he got off on the thought of being watched. That was just coincidence. John would have been happy fucking Sherlock anywhere.

So, it was Sherlock then. That was, surprisingly, okay. Not that big of a shock, strangely.

He entered the room and started circling around, again watching the handful of couples already there and letting the atmosphere rope him in. A man entered the room shortly after. He, too, wandered around until he found John. He was tall, thin, smelled nice, and definitely not Sherlock. John froze. How could he explain he was waiting for a specific person? When this was a place where you were supposed to have anonymous sex with total strangers?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw somebody else enter and a thought, an idea hit him. Maybe this was a chance to take this thing between him and his flat mate to the next level.

When not-Sherlock touched his hand, asking for permission, John nodded. The man leant in and started licking at his neck, his hands going straight to John's cock, palming him through his trousers. John almost giggled. The man had no style what-so-ever, he felt almost sorry for him, a boy probably, judging by his attitude. John could see what he thought must have been the real Sherlock close in on them and was confirmed when that man seized the other man by his hair, tearing him away from John. He could only smirk. Jealousy, interesting.

"Mine." He growled, the first words he had ever uttered in the room, low and dangerous, and definitely, 100%ly Sherlock.

The boy was probably confused and angry.

"What? Fuck off, I was here first." He sputtered.

"Wrong." Sherlock leaned in to him, face close to the boy's face and he was so lucky he couldn't see the expression in his eyes. "Now. Fuck. Off. Before I hurt you." He whispered. His voice didn't need volume when his tone was enough to let the hair on the back of John's neck stand on edge, even though the words weren't meant for him.

Thankfully, the boy understood.

"Freaks." He muttered and left the room, hurriedly.

"Jealous, are you?" John asked, not able to hide his smile from his voice. Sherlock gave a positive growl.

"Not jealous, possessive." He put his hands on John's hips and walked him backwards to the wall. "I don't share." He breathed into John's ear and then bit at his earlobe. John brought his hands up and placed them on Sherlock's shoulder blades, letting the man tongue his ear and then neck. It seemed Sherlock was an oral man. John privately thought he could probably learn to live with that.

"How did you know it was me?" Sherlock asked after a minute petting John with his mouth.

"There aren't many six-feet-tall men who smell of formaldehyde and follow me. God, I really hope there's only one, that's creepy. Do that again!" He tipped his head back, the better for Sherlock to access the spot. He complied enthusiastically.

"Christ, I love your tongue!" John was panting already and they hadn't even kissed yet. He had to change that. Forcefully he pulled Sherlock's head to the side, bringing their mouths together. John let his own tongue probe at Sherlock's lips, slipping it between them and running it over the front of his teeth and dragged it over the tender backside of his bottom lip. Sherlock shivered slightly and John did it again. Sherlock moaned, opening his mouth, John using the opportunity to slip this tongue into that hot mouth, running it over his palate, tickling exquisitely.

"You taste so good." John whispered. Sherlock delved for the side of his neck, again biting and licking at his throat.

"I could eat you." Sherlock said against his throat. "But first I need to fuck you." Sherlock swearing was a turn on. John weept and Sherlock took notice. Reaching down for John's belt, he unbuckled it one-handedly and continued whispering against his pulse point.

"I bet you'd like that. In fact, I bet you fantasized about it. Tell me John, how often did you dream of me, my cock buried in your arse?" He opened his jeans and reached into his pants for his hard prick. "Did you wank off to it? Tell me, are your fingers enough?" He brushed his thumb over the head of John's cock, rendering the man incoherent while Sherlock over-enunciated each word. "Or do you prefer mine?" He ran one hand around John's back and pushed it into his pants, fingering for his hole, pressing down but not in. John jumped under his sudden movements.

"Christ!" He panted, eyes shut tightly, chest heaving, rigid, not knowing what direction to move in. Between Sherlock's tongue on his neck, his hand on his dick and a finger almost in his arse it was difficult to decide where he wanted the attention most. Sherlock was stroking him now and John was leaking precome, resulting in an obscene squashing sound.

"God, I love this. Do you hear this, John? You're so wet for me, I wish I could see you right now. Are you hot? I bet you're flushed. My little blushed fuck puppet." He smirked against his throat and stroked faster, gripping harder. "I can't decide how I want you. I could bend you over the table or maybe against the door, but we must be quiet lest Mrs Hudson hears us, we wouldn't want that, would we? Mrs Hudson knowing we fuck, listening in on me fucking my cock into your virgin arse, fucking you raw." He was pushing his finger into John's arse, the dry sensation heightening the feeling even more. John forgot to breathe.

"I can't wait to see you spread your legs for me. Breathe!" John very audibly did. "Come for me, John." And then John came all over Sherlock's hand still half in his pants.

"Beautiful." Sherlock murmured, kissing his lips with a lot less urgency than before.

"You can't see anything." John laughed.

"I don't need to." Sherlock explained smugly. "You like it when I talk dirty?"

"Christ, Sherlock, between your voice and your hands, you could read me the phone book and I'd probably come!" Sherlock fell stiff at that. "Wait, you're not insulted, are you? Sherlock, that was incredibly hot, it really was." John sought his lips and pulled him in for a kiss. It took a moment, but Sherlock relaxed into the kiss, deepening it. He stepped back when John reached for his groin.

"Don't you want to...?" John started, but was interrupted.

"Not here. I told you what I want." He sounded a little petulant. John swallowed. He had thought it was only dirty talk. A fresh wave of arousal flooded through him.

"Oh God." He muttered.

"Unless you don't want to." He relented.

"No, Jesus, I want to. Yeah. Let's get home." He pulled up this trousers and dragged Sherlock from the room, replaying in his head everything he could remember Sherlock saying. Yeah, definitely all that.


End file.
